Free To Love a Highland Dragon by Ann Gimpel Page B

nowhere to be found. A tall, heavily-muscled man with shoddy good looks, dark brown eyes, and midnight dark locks curling about his shoulders sat next to her. Though he smiled prettily, he exuded evil. She drew away when he reached to stroke her arm. He told her his name was Rhukon, and that he was just like Lachlan. Through a leering grin he added, “If ye like Lachlan, ye’ll adore me.”
    Maggie tried to scramble to her feet but couldn’t move. Rhukon enclosed her in arms that felt like steel bands and then closed his mouth over hers. She writhed in desperation. He tightened his arms around her; she bit his tongue and scratched her fingernails down his back as hard as she could. Through it all, she fought the impression that what she was living was far more than a dream. Things got even more surreal after he drew back and slapped her.
    “Holy shit,” she muttered. “Right after that, he turned into a fucking dragon, too. A black one. What is it with dragons last night?”
    Maggie’s hand flew to her cheek; her eyes widened. She jumped from her chair so abruptly it toppled to the floor with a crash, ran to the mirror mounted on the living room wall, and stared at her face. It was too dark to see much, so she snapped on a nearby light. Her mouth fell open; her gut seized. She barely made it to the kitchen sink before her empty stomach spewed bile.
    Maggie ran water into the sink and splashed it on her face. She cupped her hands and swished some around in her mouth, spitting out the taste of sickness. Impossible. It’s impossible. Still bent over the sink, she ran a hand ran along the right side of her face. She’d seen a bruise there. One that would no doubt darken with time. The mark was congruent with the flat of Rhukon’s palm and his splayed fingers.
    I was right. That was no dream. I got dragged into some sort of parallel universe. Her sense of helplessness was so overwhelming, Maggie could scarcely bear the feel of her own skin. If something was so powerful it could march into her dreams and commandeer her body… She tried desperately to remember what had happened after he turned into a dragon, but she couldn’t.
    Her phone trilled its text tone. Maggie sprinted for the bedroom and scooped it up. So shaky her breath came in little, panting gasps, she stared at the display. Air swooshed from her lungs when she saw a text from her grandmother. Maggie’s eyes filled with tears of relief, but the respite from terror was short-lived. The words were gibberish. She sank onto the bed and stared at them. Had Mary Elma gone mad?
    Shit! For the first time in my life I need my witch heritage, and Grannie’s checked out. Maggie tossed the phone down. She felt like throwing it against the wall but understood it was her own vulnerability driving her.
    “Or maybe something darker. That…thing. The man who wants me would probably really like it if I couldn’t communicate with the outside world,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Maggie curled into a ball on the middle of her bed and forced herself to take nice, deep breaths, making sure to blow the last one out completely.
    It took a few minutes, but she did feel calmer. Something nagged at her; she snapped up the iPhone and stared at the text message, mentally rearranging its letters. When she’d been very young, just learning to read, she and her grandmother had played a game where they’d transposed the alphabet. Sort of like a sophisticated version of Pig Latin. Maybe.
    Afraid to let herself hope, Maggie repositioned herself and grabbed her sadly neglected dream journal and a pen from the bedside table. She plumped up a few pillows, propped herself against the headboard, and went to work on the few words in the text. Once she began, it didn’t take long before the strange game she’d played with Mary Elma came crashing back. Maggie stared at what emerged from her grandmother’s message.
    You face grave danger. Do the unexpected. The man could help, but